The Serpents Rush to the Valley

The serpents rush to the valley

to flee the wrath; the yawning grave.

'Who told ye hypocrites to flee?

What token give you to be free?

Allow not yourselves to tarry.

Step now ye down beneath the waves.'

Spark

The first blush of crimson

buffeting the evening sky

awakens slumbering passions;

misplaced fervor;

it catches the light, refracted,

revealing the splendor of the Presence,

the power of the Divine Word.

In awe, the day retires into shadow

but lingering

is the voracious appetite for more,

the insatiable thirst for the glory of the Lord,

such that we would lament our folly;

our fleeting tempers so easily inflamed,

so easily appeased

and turn again to wonder,

to seek, wherever it might be heard

that sonorous voice

inspiring, in equal measure, terror and peace;

conviction and joy.

'Return!' the prophet cries,

like soundings in the deep,

'Seek Him while He may yet be found.

Repent, even in this sly half-light,

of our apathy; your routine and circumstance

that have blinded devotion.

Be not so easily satisfied.

Step down and be washed clean.

Let your toes feel the embrace of moist soil;

the cool press of the river on your thighs.

Immerse, in water and Spirit,

lest dusk fall fully and sleep again

deafen the ears of faith.'

We stand at the eve's pinnacle

burdened with decision

as light slips the vale.

We watch the last throes of the day recede.

We burn, consumed

by the glory and the Word;

and will suffer no rest

though all the earth should slumber.

Eastertide #3

We awoke

as if from a long slumber

to the serenade

of birds long departed

--- no grander praise.

We saw the dawn

bathing the grassy hillocks

in cool splendor

and sat in disbelief

at the sight.

For at once,

the shadow was gone,

the dull oppression;

the despairing had been but a

wish of cloud.

The darkness of that ninth hour

broke in the gloaming

of a new day

--- the Lord's Day.

In All

In all

uncertainty and

scarcity;

trepidation and want,

in the mire and the marrow

the dawn shines brighter

over desolate plains;

the shattered hillocks,

dusted now

with the frailest

shoots of spring.

In all despair,

in barest need

there is solace

in furrowed brow

resting on ancient creed.